The Great Chase
by Dan Ingram
Summary: Several villains are hired for the job of their lives, that is, if they survive it! Now: Their mission!
1. Chapter 1

oooOOoo

The Great Chase

Part 1

"Meet the Prey."

oooOOoo

_Baltimore_

"Hey, hurry it up with that scrimp!" Jason 'The Edge' Mason cracked open his lobster, obvious to the glares of the waiters and the men sitting at the table with him, "we ain't got all day, here! We're on tax payer dime here!"

"Mr. Mason," Agent Benson, twenty year agent of the FBI, rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, "it would behoove you not to announce the fact that you're with members of law enforcement to the entire world."

"Eh, what's it matter?" Mason took a gulp of wine, "soon as I'm in front of the grand jury, I'm in witness relocation. You get Paulo Costanzo's entire crew, and I get a new life."

"The matter is that you haven't testified," replied the second agent. Agent Clarke had only been on the job three years, but he was beginning to suspect that he wouldn't make it another three if he had to deal with assholes like this.

"Details, details," Mason waved their concerns aside, "learn to relax, boys. You'll live longer."

Barely a minute passed before smoke began to billow from the kitchen, the fire alarm blared and customers went from eating an expensive lunch to becoming part of a panicked mob rushing for the door.

"Stay put," Agent Benson drew his piece, and placed a hand on Mason's shoulder and kept a wary eye on the crowd as it rushed past.

"What? We gotta get outta here!" Mason protested, "I ain't looking to burn!"

"That much fat, I'd be worried too," Agent Clarke mumbled.

"We will," Benson replied, "but it's too easy for a killer to hide in a crowd like this. We're taking the back way. Come on!"

Benson took point, leading Mason and the rest of his security detail through a back, emergency exit. Some twenty years in law enforcement had taught him to always know the back way out of any place, and this one was better than most. It led to a parking garage with its own private security. The guards who patrolled it were ex-cops with standing orders to call 911 if they heard any gun shots. With a precinct four blocks away, it wasn't Fort Knox, but it was safer than your average restaurant.

"Alright, eyes peeled," Agent Benson ordered, as his people began to fan out.

"You're just overreacting," Mason muttered, "kitchen fires happen all the time, and…"

Mason's eyes went wide when he saw two agents fall forward unconscious. Agent Benson grabbed the former mob boss by the collar and dragged him behind a parked car. Agent Clark dove after him, as the trunk of the car began to spark from ricochets.

"What the hell?" Agent Clarke poked his head up, only to duck back down again when he heard a the –pang!- of metal hit with the force of a bullet in front of him, "I didn't hear any shots!"

"Because they were thrown," Agent Benson took a deep breath, "oh God, they sent Bullseye…"

"Bullseye?!" Mason's face went white, "you said you could protect me! That maniac will kill us all, do something!"

"It's not Bullseye," Agent Clarke said, his voice shaking.

"How do you know?" Benson asked.

"Because I can see the rest of our team is still breathing," Agent Clarke answered, his hands shaking.

"Then who?"

"Me."

The two agents turned their head and saw a dark skinned man wearing a brown combat vest, brown fatigue pants with a shot gun strapped to his back.

"Name's Hurricane, gentlemen. Mr. Mason there has a date with the reaper tonight, but there's no reason why anyone else has to get hurt."

"Clarke, left!" Agent Benson shouted, as he brought up his piece.

The two agents leveled their weapons at the hitman, but Hurricane moved with the speed of his namesake. He tapped the bottom of one of the pockets on his vest, and two marbles popped up and into his hand. The two Federal agents had squeezed off two shots now, but Hurricane leapt above the bullets as he threw the tiny glass spheres.

They struck with laser like precision, cracking the small bones in their gun hands and forcing them to drop their weapons just as he landed in between them, with Mason at his front.

"Nothing personal," Hurricane backhanded them both, and they fell senselessly to the ground, "but I can't have you getting in the way."

"Oh god," Mason had to drag his eyes away from his fallen bodyguards. The weight of his crimes, which seemed so distant when he was planning to testify on behalf of the United States, seemed crushing now, "please, whatever they're paying, I can double it! Triple, even!"

"My honor isn't for sale," Hurricane replied. He pulled out his sidearm and without any ceremony, put a bullet through Mason's head.

"Freeze!" Agent Clarke snapped.

Hurricane crooked his head and saw Agent Clarke, still on his knees, service weapon aimed at Hurricane's head.

"No," Hurricane removed a plastic ball from his belt and flicked it backwards. It struck the side of the wall, and then smacked Agent Clarke upside the head. As the Agent fell back, he squeezed the trigger, and…

"Arrgh!" Agent Benson clutched his leg, and saw a growing pool of blood.

"Shit!" Hurricane rushed to the Agent's side, brushing aside the Agent's gun without a second thought, "that's the femoral artery, you have one minute before you bleed out."

"No…shit!" Benson growled.

"This will stop the bleeding," Hurricane pulled out a garrote from his vest, and wrapped it around the leg, "make sure you tell the EMTs what happened. The tourniquet will hurt, but it's better than a grave."

"What do you care?" Agent Benson couldn't keep himself from asking.

"Who says I do?" Hurricane stood up, and then picked up Agent Clarke's weapon, and aimed it at the Agent, "hey asshole, learn trigger control."

Hurricane crushed the weapon in his hand, and dropped it on the Agent's head.

"Because when you miss, bad shit can happen."

_Later_

The Marksman was three blocks away by the time he heard sirens. He'd found his clothing stash, and changed into his civilian clothes behind an empty construction lot. Once he no longer looked like a hired gun, he picked up a pre-paid cell and dialed.

"Mission completed. No collateral."

"The client didn't specify about collateral," replied a voice.

"Not the point."

"Whatever. I've got a job and plane ticket for you…"

oooOOooo

_New York_

"So…Goldilocks…."

"It's Sister Golden," Alexandra Amari brushed a strand of blond hair out of her face, "like the song."

"Right, right," George Flemmi gave her a toothy smile, "Sister Golden, look, I know this isn't what we agreed on, but to be honest, it wasn't as if you did exactly what was asked of ya…"

"They're dead," Sister Golden replied, "that was exactly what was asked of me. No 'make it look like an accident', no 'bring me a head'. Just dead. And for that you promised me a considerable amount of money. Don't think because I'm a woman that you can get away with pushing me around?"

"Hey, I always treat beautiful woman with respect," said George, and he did admire her beauty. Slim body, six feet with flowing blond hair that rand down past her ankles and a skin tight black suit, she was definitely someone George would regret killing, "but the point is, you didn't do the job as specified."

"No, the problem is that I can connect you to the murders and that would start a gang war," Sister Golden could hear the floor boards behind her creak with the weight of two three hundred pound goons.

"Well," George's smile was beginning to wear on her nerves, "there is that."

Sister Golden felt two very strong hands fall on her shoulders, but she didn't budge.

"Boys, show her a good time, and then get rid of her."

"You know, I've spent my life around people like you," Sister Golden sighed, "and I'm still amazed how stupid thugs like you can be."

Sister Golden's hair moved like a living thing. Thick strands wrapped around the wrists of both men, and squeezed. They screamed as flesh and bone were sliced like butter, while two other braids of hair reached into their coats and relieved them of their guns. Only then did Sister Golden's hair release its grip on them. The two men grabbed their bleeding wrists, trying to staunch the blood flow.

"Now Mr. Flemmi," Sister Golden pointed both guns at the stunned mob boss, "you're going to double my fee, and maybe I won't see fit to kill you on principle. Do you have any idea how hard hair like this is to wash?"

oooOOooo

_Later_

Sister Golden pulled her trench coat up as she walked down the block. Ever since she'd began her career six months ago, she began to feel self conscious about standing out in a crowd versus how to remain inconspicuous with hair that went down to her ankles. A trench coat in summer stood out, even if she wasn't carrying a suitcase filled with cash, but what other choice did she have?

"Freakin' assholes," Sister Golden couldn't keep herself from muttering, "I'm a rookie, not an idiot. And who the hell tries to rip off someone who killed six men on your behalf, anyways?"

Sister Golden noticed she was drawing a few stares, and quickly zipped her mouth. She didn't say another word aloud until she heard her prepaid cell phone ring.

"Sister Golden? I have an assignment for you…"

oooOOooo

_Switzerland _

"Oh God, I'm dead, I'm dead," Melvin Teller paced back and forth in his office.

By all rights, he should have had nothing to fear. He lived in a mansion with a state of the art security, funded by a billion dollar bank account, and protected by security guards with invulnerable skin and military training. The grounds had anti-aircraft batteries, force field generators, walls reinforced with vibranium and everything an account who'd ripped off Hydra for a billion dollars could want.

Except peace of mind.

"Sir, with due respect, my people won't let that happen," said Peter Dresden. He was a veteran of three wars, and was considered for Delta Force when he decided that private employment would pay better. Since then he's joined 'Steel Wall Security', which besides providing a six figure income, had a science program that made their soldiers all physically invulnerable.

_The mansion, like any mansion, had no shortage of bathrooms and showers. So many that no one gave them much of a second thought. And by their very nature, no one right minded person would ever have placed any security cameras inside of them. That's why no one noticed the air bubbles, or even the hand that reached out of the toilet a second afterwards._

Peter thought it was a little bit cheating as a soldier, until he remembered that as a soldier, there was no such thing as cheating. And the rich and powerful would pay through the nose for a bodyguard that couldn't be stopped by bullets.

"_God, what is that smell?" Opie Tanner pinched his nose, but never thought to look up. A shadow descended over him, and the last that would ever be heard from him was simply muffled screams._

"Do you know who was sent after me?" Teller demanded, "Mr. Slick!"

"Mr. Slick will just be a slick _stain_ if he shows his face around here," Peter reassured him.

"Is that so, Mr. GI Joe?"

Mr. Teller felt his heart stop as a man with short dark hair, piercing blue eyes wearing a stained, wet sleeveless T-short and sweat pants casually strolled into the room.

"I think I would disagree some with that assessment."

Peter raised his sidearm and shot Mr. Slick in the chest three times with no warning. Mr. Slick stumbled back, but he didn't fall.

"Opie! Trig!" Peter shouted into his radio, "we've been breached! I need you to get money bags out!"

"You're going to need a better radio than that if you expect to talk to your friends," Mr. Slick reached down to where he'd been shot, and literally picked the bullet out of his skin, "just shooting me? Have you no respect for the craft, son?"

"None whatsoever," Peter holstered his weapon and then charged forward, tackling Mr. Slick.

"Run, Teller!" Peter shouted. Win or lose, he wasn't about to do a shitty job, "now!"

"Now hold on here!" Mr. Slick's arms wrapped Peter's like a python strangling its prey, and Slick's legs wrapped around Peter's waist, "you run, I'll make it ugly. Just stay right there now."

"You won't do jack!" Peter managed to swing his fist into Mr. Slick's skull, slamming it against the ground, but it was like hitting plastic, deforming for a moment before resuming its regular shape.

"We are at an impasse, good sir," Mr. Slick's smile made Peter ill, "now, I'd like to propose a simple contest."

"Go to hell!" Peter head-butted the madman, to no effect.

"It's a simple one. Who can hold their breath the longest?"

"What…"

Peter never finished his sentence, as Mr. Slick's neck stretched and suddenly narrowed to the size of a straw, and then dove down the bodyguard's throat. When he was half way to Peter's stomach, Mr. Slick expanded his neck back to its usual size.

Peter seized as he found himself unable to breathe, or even swallow. He bucked like a wild horse, he tried biting down, he even tried mumbled begging, but nothing helped. Mr. Teller watched as his bodyguard slowly suffocated to death, with another man's head down his throat.

Common sense told him that he should have run, but he was like a deer in headlights. Sheer, animal terror left him barely able to breath, let alone think and he stood there unable to tear his eyes away.

Mr. Slick heard Peter's heart stopped, and then popped out of the man's throat like a cork.

"Well," Mr. Slick pushed the man's corpse off of him and stood up, "I think I win. What would you say, Mr. Teller?"

"I…I...I…"

Mr. Slick wiped the spit and bile from his face, "Yes? Don't keep me in suspense, that's not polite."

"I think he was a waste of money," Mr. Teller couldn't help himself. He was going to die, all because he'd hired the wrong men.

"Well, that's not very polite," Mr. Slick walked towards Mr. Teller until they were face to face. The Accountant and Madman could feel the breath of the other on them, "you should never speak ill of the dead."

Mr. Slick slashed Mr. Teller across the face with his nails, and the man screamed loudly in a very unbecoming manner.

"After all, what would you have people say of you, when you are gone?"

"I…" Mr. Teller looked at his hands, and saw how they shook, and his throat ran dry. His knees began to ache, and he doubled over, "what's happening?"

"I'm afraid that your old employers, they wanted something of an example," Mr. Slick explained. He grabbed the back of Mr. Teller's shirt, and dragged him towards his desk, "I can produce all kinds o' oils and poisons, so I'm afraid I was told to choose somethin' especially vile. Let me explain what'll happen in the next few hours. You're going to have muscles spasms, so bad that your bones will break like twigs. And as you thrash around, well, it'll be like salt on a wound. Meanwhile, your brain, supercharged on adrenaline, just won't be able to shut off. Your body is going to do it's damnest to go the distance so that you feel…every…little…twitch."

Mr. Slick swept the papers off of Teller's desk, and then sat down, one leg crossed over the other.

"And that, sir, is why you don't speak ill of the dead."

Mr. Slick watched for several minutes, as Mr. Teller writhed in pain, when he heard the man's phone ring. Others would have ignored it, but Mr. Slick had been in the business long enough to develop a sixth sense about this sort of thing.

"Good morning."

"Mr. Slick, I presume?"

"You may, Mr. Mystery voice," Mr. Slick glanced around, looking for any cameras or listening devises.

"You're a hard man to find."

"Well, I did not choose my name out of a hat," Mr. Slick shrugged, and turned his attention to Mr. Teller. Business and pleasure didn't always have to be separate, "I only imagine the great lengths with which you went to find me means that you mean to ask a boon of me?"

"You're in the middle of a multi-million dollar security system that hasn't peeped," said the voice, "it's why I feel you are vital, for what I have in mind."

"Well, I am very flattered," Mr. Slick said, "but may I have a number to call you back on? I feel we need to have a more in-depth conversation, and there's a show on I simply cannot miss."

oooOOooo

_Africa, Congo_

The value of the cargo reached in the tens of millions, and General Baas was determined not to leave it unprotected. The convoy to transport it included one aged Russian armored carrier, an Apache helicopter and over three dozen of his most highly trained men.

General Baas knew that his rivals had heard whispers of the convoy, and knew his route. He expected an attack, he expected some losses.

But the convoy made good time as they cut through the rain forest, and didn't meet with a single attack. That surprised General Baas. In fact, he was almost relieved when his scouts reported that there was some stranger was waiting for them just as they broke cover from the jungle.

"Afram," General Baas turned to his lieutenant, "see who the fool is."

Afram nodded. He stepped out of the hum-vee, hand on his sidearm. He looked to the Apache helicopter circling overhead, and made a gesture that loosely translated into 'be ready to open', and walked towards the…woman?

Afram didn't know what to make of the strange woman who stood in the center of the road, arms crossed with a devilish smile. Afram didn't recognize her, and while he knew of superhumans like Thor or Black Panther, he knew of twice as many imitators, idiots who would make a costume or stumble across some obscure mystic trinket that they thought made them invincible, only to find out they were just as human as anyone else.

Maniac or threat, that was what he had to determine.

And the woman certainly looked like a maniac, with long red hair, sleeveless trench coat, wearing a metal breastplate and blue jeans, an eye-patch over her right eye. And then there were the weapons she carried. Twin axes resting on her hips, and what appeared to be a foothold trap that ran the length of her left arm, like an alligator's jaw bent backwards.

"Crazy girl, you need to move!" Afram ordered.

"I'm sorry, I cannot, mortal," the woman replied with a genuinely friendly smile, "My name is Hrist, and I've hath been contracted to kill thy General Baas."

Afram, without another word, pulled out his sidearm and shot Hrist with the entire clip. When he was done, she simply brushed the bullets from her chest, and crooked her head at him, "I'm sorry, I didn't know he was a friend of yours."

Afram turned and ran, and his compatriots in the Apache didn't need any orders to know what to do next. They opened up with their Gatling gun, before switching to anti-tank missiles. By luck or skill, not a single one missed Hrist.

And she just grabbed her axes, and smiled.

The Asgardian leapt towards the humvee and brought both her axes down it at once, crushing it like a coke can.

She pushed it aside, only for the armored carrier to smash into her at sixty miles per. It only pushed the mercenary a few feet before she dug in her heels, and then flipped it into the air.

Gunfire filled the air, but Hrist regarded it as little more than an annoyance. She brought her axe up, shielding her face, as she scanned the battlefield. By now the soldiers had fanned out, some seeking cover in the thick bush, or behind their vehicles. Orders were being shouted, men were yelling, and in all the chaos she just couldn't seem to find the men she was supposed to end.

"Come prepared, as mine Dwarven father always said," Hrist reached behind her back, and withdrew a machete she'd bought a few days ago. She spoke to it, in a whisper that only it could hear. Ancient runes shimmered for a moment, and when they were done Hrist casually threw it in the direction of the soldiers. As it flew through the air, it began to twist, and angle itself unnaturally.

oooOOoo

"Back up, back up!" General Baas snarled at his soldiers. The transport with his prize was at the middle of the convoy, which made it difficult, in all this chaos, to turn around. General Baas didn't care for any of that. He was simply overwhelmed with fear that his prize might be stolen from him, and that fear manifested itself as rage at his subordinates.

"If you don't turn it around in the next minute, I will…" General Baas felt a thump, and jerked forward. He caught himself before he fell, but still couldn't keep from looking down. In the center of his chest was a machete that literally had his name on it.

General Baas bled out in seconds, before his men could even take in the fact that he was killed by a magically guided machete.

When it finally sank in, two soldiers looked at one another, and one said, "Maybe the mercenary will stop her killing, now that he's dead?"

oooOOooo

_12 minutes later _

Hrist whistled a half remembered mortal tune as she walked away from the burning pile of wreckage, soldiers and helicopter that she'd created. In truth, Hrist hadn't meant to kill all those men and destroy all that equipment, but once she got started it was hard to stop.

She was in so much bliss, that she didn't even notice her cell phone vibrating for a good five minutes before she answered it.

"Identify thyself, mortal," Hrist said.

"Is the contract complete?"

"Verily," Hrist replied.

"And his cargo?"

"Burning in the flames of hel!" Hrist chuckled. It blew up better than anything else in Asgard ever could, "tis the prettiest sight I've laid eyes on in ages."

"…your employer would have appreciated that cargo," said the voice.

"Then mine employer should have asked for it, and not try to make subtle threats when we made our pact, mortal," Hrist hissed, "your riches are less than baubles to me. I do this for mine own reasons."

"Well, do those reasons object to a trip to South America?"

oooOOooo

_Mandipoor, Lowtown_

"There we were, just Wolverine and me, surrounded by a dozen nazi ninjas. They wanted this thing called a cosmic cube, and that runt was just gonna cave in and give it to them. Know what I said to that, darling?"

"What, baby?" Phuong Long tried to keep from rolling her eyes. She'd 'entertained' dozens of Westerners in her time, but none were half as stupid, or annoying as this man.

He was a mercenary, there was no mistaking that. He went by the name Garrison Katar and he reminded her of a character out of a bad American western. He wore a black bodysuit, covered by a colorful poncho with two six shooters and a brown cowboy hat. His face was in need of a shave and his hair was simply too long to be taken seriously.

"I said hell no!" Katar took a gulp from his beer, "no way was I gonna let those ratzis get away with that!"

"Tell us another story," Katar looked up from his beer, and saw three Asian men stand across his table. Two were built like brick houses, and the third was only five feet tall, but wore a suit worth at least several thousand dollars to even the untrained eye.

"The story where some foreign piece of trash claims credit for the death of the dreaded North White Wind of Death."

Katar rubbed the back of his neck, "And you would be?"

"The South Wind of Death," the man replied, "the man who killed his rival."

_Three minutes later_

Katar crashed bodily into a row of trashcans. South Wind, and his bodyguards strolled out after him. Katar's guns were in the arms of the first guard, while his hat was in the hands of the second.

"Okay, there seems to be some kind of mistake here, fellas…" Katar groaned, and rubbed his aching ribs.

"There is no mistake here," growled The South Wind, "my people heard how you said you disabled the locks on his office, how you placed time release devise filled with acid to cut the elevators, and then disabled the fail safes. You did none of that!"

"Well, that is true," Katar nodded.

"Good-bye, cowboy," South Wind motioned for his men to end this.

"Wait, wait wait!" Katar raised his hands defensively, "I just have one thing to ask!"

"What?" South Wind hissed.

"Was it the southern accent? The stories?"

South Wind raised eye brow, "What about them?"

"Which one made you ignore the fact that I knew details about the murder that hadn't been released to the public?"

Katar smiled, as South wind's eyes went wide.

"Even killers have family."

"Kill him!" South Wind screamed.

Katar grabbed the first man by the wrist, and the man screamed as it began to burn. Katar mule kicked him away. The second man moved for his gun, but Katar pulled a knife that South Wind was certain the man hadn't been carrying five minutes before and jammed it in the man's throat.

"You…" South Wind had two short knives in each hand, "…have made a grave error."

"Why? Because you generate a forcefield that makes you impossible to touch?" Katar smiled. He removed a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with the snap of his finger, "tough guy like you, why do you even bother with bodyguards?"

"To handle the riff-raff," replied South Wind, "to make sure anyone who tries to kill me is worth my time."

"Well," Katar blew a puff of smoke in South Wind's face, "if you're looking for a throw down, I may disappoint."

South Wind tried to reply, but his throat was dry, and he began to see double.

"The lovely Viper herself taught me how to make poisons," Katar winked, and blew a yellow ring of smoke. South Wind began coughing, as blood began to pass his lips.

South Wind fell, and Katar flicked his cigarette aside, and strolled to the first bodyguard, who was clutching his burned wrist. In his agony, the man had dropped the gun belt that held Katar's six shooters.

"Please," the man cried, "don't kill me!"

"I should," Katar strapped his gun belt on, "you don't never touch another man's piece. But I'll let you make it up to me, if you hand over your cell. I got me a call to make."

oooOOoo

"I'm just saying, we shouldn't just walk away from this, Manslaughter!"

Manslaughter Mandale rolled his eyes at his fellow conspirator, The Ringer. He'd been recruited along with Ringer and another costume to rob a high rise apartment. He'd been the muscle, Ringer was the safe-cracker (he swore his rings could constrict with enough strength to cut through anything) and their third member, Lady Stiltman was the one who was supposed to give them access via an alleyway that wasn't watched.

But things went to hell when two kids just horsing around, stumbled across them. Manslaughter lunged for them, only to be caught by Ringer's weapons (purely by accident, the villain insisted) and Lady Stiltman just bolted to their prearranged meeting spot, an out of the way hotel that did all kinds of sorted business. The three didn't even stand out when they went to their rooms in full costume.

"We're villains!" Lady Stiltman said defiantly, "our employer should have expected betrayal when he hired us!"

"Isn't what we did more failure…?" Ringer asked.

"Well, whatever you want to call it, it's done," Manslaughter Mandale picked up his suitcase stuff with the advance he'd been paid for the job, and walked out the door without looking back.

Lady Stiltman and Ringer exchanged a glance, and Ringer was about to say something, when Manslaughter Mandale flew through the hotel room's front window.

Ringer looked at Mandale as he struggled to rise, and then looked outside.

"Oh, crap…"

Standing outside in the parking lot was a strikingly beautiful blond haired. She wore an earth brown body suit, with a lion's mane for a collar, two large knives on her hips and a scowl on her face.

"My name is Ana Kravinoff," she said, "daughter of Kraven the hunter and today, I am your hunter. You have defaulted on a debt owed. I am here to make you aware of the consequences."

"Traitor!" Lady Stiltman stepped out into the parking lot and activated her stilts. Within seconds she towered over Ana by two stories.

"Idiot," Ana countered, and threw a bolo that entangled Lady Stiltman's legs. She went down with a loud crash, smashing an old car.

"Back off!" Ringer shouted, as he unleashed wave of rings. To Ana they looked to be the stupidest thing in the world, but she was an excellent hunter and knew her prey. If any of those rings managed to wrap around her, it would slice through her flesh like butter.

The huntress flipped aside easily, and snatched a ring out of the air, and flung it at The Ringer, hitting him upside the head. The man went down like a sack of bricks.

"My employer, Mr. Drake, paid you a large sum of money for the contents of that vault," Ana said loudly enough to be heard by the entire parking lot, "you cretins may not remember the exact terms of your contact, but let me assure you that it does not include a default clause. Mandale…?"

Manslaughter Mandale rose up like a creature from the pit, and lunged at Kravinoff. He had two feet and a hundred pounds more of weight over his target.

And he didn't stand a chance.

"Are you listening to me?" Ana boxed the Giant's ears, and he stumbled, "I'm aware that you are incapable of feeling pain, but that doesn't keep your body safe from harm."

Ana slammed her foot into Mandale's knee, and he fell forward into an expertly swung elbow. Ana drew her knives, and slammed the pummels into Mandale's head.

"Now, as I was saying," Ana's foot smacked upside Mandale's skull, "my employer can be kind when the mood suits, he is willing to allow you to make amends."

Ana brought her elbow down on Mandale's skull, "You may either complete the job, for which your payment will only be the advance you were given, or you can repay him twice what you were originally given for this job."

Ana dodged a punch from Manslaughter, and then swept his legs out from under him. He fell, and within seconds she had him in an iron clad choke hold, "What you decide is up to you. However, I suggest you choose wisely. I was only sent to find you, and deliver a message."

Ana allowed the unconscious Manslaughter Mandale to fall forward, unconscious.

"The next person he sends will not be as gentle as I was."

Ana sheathed her knives, and began to walk away. With one hunt completed and another already lined up, she had no time to waste making more threats. What happened next was up to them, not her.

"…traitor."

The word was said softly, so much so that few others in the world could have heard it, but Ana was very much her father's daughter. She turned towards Lady Stiltman, where he still lay in the ruins of a parks car.

"Excuse me?" Ana drew a knife, and within seconds it was at Lady Stiltman's throat.

"You heard me," Lady Stiltman rasped. The fall had given her a punctured lung, but had done nothing about her illusions as to what supervillain life was really like, "hunting…your own kind? Your father…was one of the greats…"

"My father was a hunter" Ana pressed the dagger against the woman's throat. The Stiltman armor was no Iron Man, and the slits around the throat peeled away easily, "not some gaudy fool in a suit smarter than them. Remember that, and say another word about my father and I will flay you alive."

ooOOoo

_Germany_.

The music of Beethoven gently sifted in the air, as the mercenary Black Swan sat in his study. He'd recently come into possession of a first edition of 'War and Peace', in the original Russian and was devouring it like a college lit student. The price had caused three wealthy men to lose their lives and threw one small country into upheaval, but Black Swan felt it was still a bargain.

And of course, he'd only been able to finish three pages before his head of security, Hans, burst in.

"Sir, we're under…"

Black Swan raised a single finger, and Hans knew better than to speak. The Black Swan was as much a ruthless disciplinarian as he was a skilled mercenary. Rudeness, at least as Black Swan perceived it, was intolerable.

It took Black Swan only a minute to complete the paragraph, as he ignored the sounds of bullets and screams of his security team.

When he was finished, Black Swan made note of the page, and gently closed his book.

"What seems to be the issue?" Black Swan picked up his sword cane, and strolled towards his head of security.

"We're under attack," Hans said, "one person, a swordsman with blinding eyes. He's cut through half my men already, and…"

"Say no more," Black Swan sighed. The aged mercenary kept a security force more to discourage young upstarts than to deter anyone with actual skill, but more and more it seemed as if they couldn't even do that, "order your men to pull back, and have them be mindful of the gardens. Inform our guest that I'll be waiting for him in the ballroom if he wishes to have a word with me."

"Yes, sir."

oooOOooo

Black Swan wasn't kept waiting long. He'd just begun to pour himself a glass of wine when Hans and the attacker entered. The man had a shaved head, black body suit and ninjas star tattoos around his eyes.

"Honestly," Black Swan shook his head, "do you even understand the concept of subtle?"

"Ask me if I care," replied the Swordsman. He gave Hans a look, and Black Swan's head of security take several steps back, "my name is…"

"Flashblade," Black Swan interrupted, "skilled swordsman with eyes that generate a disorientating bright light."

"Should I be flattered?" Flashblade smirked, and drew his two katanas, "the infamous Black Swan knows my name? He knows the man that will kill him?"

"Not hardly," Black Swan set down his wine glass, and removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wrapped it into a blindfold and secured it around his eyes, "when you first made yourself known, I thought you might have potential. You displayed a certain level of cunning. But young man, you made a grievous error. Do you know what that is?"

"I'm sure you're dying to enlighten me."

Black Swan turned around and withdrew his swordcane from its sheath, "You allowed yourself to become comfortable. You never sought to challenge yourself. Until now, that is."

"Oh really?" Flashblade seemed to look past Black Swan for a moment and then back at the aged mercenary.

"Yes," Black Swan said simply. He then spun his sword in his hand, and swept it under his elbow, tucking it under his arm. Black Swan then swung the blade forward, and smiled as he heard a body drop. He knew he'd have to review the security cameras to see the look on Flashblade's face, "relying on an invisible ally to surround an enemy is clever, done once. But you've done it so many times it's become predictable. I'm going to kill you, and all I needed was a blindfold."

"Jessica…" Flashblade shook with rage, "how could you have known…? I never told anyone! No one knew, no one!"

"I read the reports of two of your assassinations," Black Swan swept his blade aside, clearing it of blood, "that's all I needed to know. I am an old man in a profession that kills young men in their prime. That alone should have made you wary of me."

"Die!" Flashblade screamed, sword in each hand. Black Swan swatted both aside with his blade and sheath, and head-butted the mercenary. Flashblade back-peddled and just barely managed to duck under a slash that would have slit his throat.

"What's the matter, boy?" Flashblade could feel Black Swan's cold eyes on him, even through the blind fold, "not used to a fair fight? Don't know how to fight from a disadvantage?"

"I know enough to kill you!" Flashblade replied, as he lunged again.

Black Swan rolled his head along with his eyes, and parried easily. He sensed an open, but dodged a stab instead of taking advantage. Last week he'd been a little slack in his exercise regiment, and felt this was enough to make up for it.

"Sir? I have a Colonel Condor on the phone?" Hans was careful to stay out of the mix, as he held the cell phone. Flashblade had forgotten him, but his employer most certainly didn't give a damn about his life. He knew that stepping between them would be like stepping between two hungry dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. Regardless of who won later, he would lose now, "should I take a message?"

"Put it on speakerphone," Black Swan hooked Flashblade's knee with his sheath and lifted up, sending the younger mercenary tumbling to the ground. His enemy down, Black Swan took a step back.

No need to rush to the obvious conclusion.

"Colonel Condor, good evening," Black Swan's tone was pure business. And even though his business was murder, he still didn't care for men like Condor. Black Swan at least had the strength of character to kill people personally and cleanly. Condor, not so much, "how may I be of service?"

But then, his money was as green as anyone else's.

"After all the business I've sent your way, must you be so…formal?" Condor's tone almost seemed sincere, but Black Swan knew how men like Condor were capable of faking emotion, "I'm simply calling to…invite…"

Condor broke into a coughing fit, and despite himself, Black Swan paused. The mercenary was not a young man by any stretch of the imagination, but Colonel Condor was little older than him. For a moment, Black Swan felt very self aware of his age.

But then Flashblade tried to stab him in the back, and Black Swan turned aside, avoiding the blade with such ease that it looked rehearsed. Black Swan responded with a swipe that sliced across Flashblade's knee, and the young swordsman screamed in pain.

"Have…I caught you at a bad time?" Colonel Condor wheezed.

"Not at all," Black Swan smashed Flashblade across the face with his sword sheath, and then brought the blade of his sword cane down on Flashblade's knee, slicing through nerves and muscle like butter. Black Swan twisted the blade before he withdrew, and the upstart killer screamed in agony and fell backwards, clutching his ruined knee and howling like a child, "just cleaning up around my home."

"A man of your position, he should leave that to his lessers," Colonel Condor observed.

"Some things are best handled personally," Black Swan sheathed his sword, and silently motioned towards his head of security, Hans. Hans gave him the cell phone and then drew his sidearm. Without a word, he put two bullets in Flashblade's skull, "at any rate, I've finished and you have my full attention. Please be quick about it, however."

"Very well. I'm holding a gathering of career professionals. I'm going to be making a push into new territory," Colonel Condor explained, "and I need someone with experience to help me evaluate the new talent. I'm willing to pay triple your normal fee."

"Hmm, for that much money, you must be planning something very important."

"Trust me, Black Swan, it is a matter of life and death."

Next Issue: Our cast gathers and mission revealed!


	2. Chapter 2

oooOOoo

The Great Chase

Part 2

"Meet the Party."

oooOOoo

_Nowhere, Midwest America_

In the years since 9/11, airport security had received hundreds of billions of dollars for the express purpose of making people safer. X-Ray machines, hundreds of people hired to pat down aged grandmothers, trained dogs and all kinds of chemical detectors meant to protect to public from terrorists who wanted to kill them or use the plane as a weapon against those on the ground.

And for the most part, it was money well spent.

But in the rush for security and safety, no one took any time to look at the matter in terms of logistics. Sure, commercial flights were safer now than they'd ever been, but cargo planes and charter flights?

They were another matter entirely. They received only a cursory glance, which was why the mercenary known as Hurricane was able to show up at a private hangar in full combat gear covered only by a trench coat. He tossed a bundle of money to man on the federal pay roll, who sat in a small office reading the paper, and boarded a cargo plane owned by several different shell companies.

Once inside, Hurricane glanced around, taking stock of his fellow passengers. There were three members of the Wrecking Crew, Man-Ape, Supercharger, Icemaster, Cardinal, Klaw and those were just the names Hurricane recognized. He counted twenty one supervillains in all, enough firepower to overthrow a small country.

Surrounded by all that firepower, Hurricane took his seat, leaned back and began to take a nap.

"Finally, a flight with no screaming kids."

oooOOooo

_Vulcan Domuyo_

Hurricane stepped off the plane alongside a dozen other villains, and was greeted by a fleet of limos.

"You got to be kidding me," Sister Golden remarked. She expected the aircraft to land at night, on a private airfield away from prying eyes, but instead they were standing around in broad daylight, with the red carpet both figuratively and literally rolled out for them.

"Members of the mercenary community, welcome!" A man in a custom suit, slicked back hair and a dazzling white smile strolled forward. He was flanked by two men.

The first was a young Asian man in an equally expensive suit and a katana strapped to his back. His name was Bakuto, and he was the leader of The Hand in all of South America.

The second man was bald with dark skin, and wore an all black body suit that bore no weapons besides a sidearm and several clips. He was known only as Stone, and leader of the new PMC known as Blackguard. He was new on the scene, and all anyone really knew was that his organization was formed of ex-soldiers, all superpowered.

"My name is Elias, I speak on behalf of my father Colonel Condor and I'm here to welcome you to our bi-annual gathering. I count many of your persuasion as my friends, and it is because of that I encourage you to look around you. Today is a day to network, to find allies and to learn the field for which you have chosen yourself. But most importantly, you're here to enjoy yourself!"

Ana Kravinoff rolled her eyes as she climbed into a limo alongside Cardinal and Klaw. This whole affair did not suit the huntress, and she knew it wasn't going to get any better any time sooner.

oooOOooo

"Well, ain't this just the most beautiful city this side of Atlantis?" Garrison Katar rolled down the window of his limo, and waved like a drunken tourist. If the citizens of Vulcan Domuyo thought it unusual that a caravan of limos filled with criminals was driving through the street, they gave no sign.

"I've seen better," remarked Vector, master of sound.

"I hate South America," mumbled Shockwave, "nothing against the people, but the humidity just itches my scars. And how the hell did you ever go to Atlantis?"

"Namor invited me hisself," Katar replied, "he's a swell guy when you get past the temper."

"Yeah right," Shockwave shook his head, "some no namer like you met Namor?"

"Hey, I get around," Katar smiled, "hey, you guys know why we're here? I read in the tourist guide that Vulcan Domuyo was actually one of the main beach heads for anti-communist action durin' the Cold War. This entire country's like a beachhead for every intelligence agency interested in this continent. Ain't that somethin'?"

"Whatever," muttered Vector, as he wondered what he'd done to have to endure the company of such an idiot.

Well, besides all the crime and murder.

oooOOooo

_Later_

"Vapor, Vapor where are you baby?"

Vapor of the U-Foes turned around, and gave her teammate, Iron Clad, a look of pure disgust. Though they had been teammates for years and friends before that, her heart belonged to only man, and that wasn't two tons of cold steel.

"Excuse me?" Vapor gave Iron Clad a look of pure venom.

"Baby, how are you?" Iron Clad gave her a look that plainly translated into 'play along', and because of that Vapor didn't immediately fill his lungs with mustard gas, "I've just met the most interesting lady…"

"Metal man, where arts thou?" a voice boomed. Vapor instinctively gave Iron Clad a look of sympathy.

"Hrist!" Iron Clad carefully put his hand around Vapor's waist, "I'd like you to meet my wife."

"Wife?" Hrist leaned in close to Vapor's face and seemed to examine every inch of her, "I thought it was mortal custom to gift your spouse with a ring of some sort?"

"We don't need metal to prove our love," Vapor said quickly.

Hrist rubbed her chin, "Hmm, very well. I would offer to include you too, mortal woman, but I think your weak frame would be imperiled. Your loss."

"What was that?" Vapor asked the moment Hrist was out of earshot.

"Agardian, and batshit crazy," Iron Clad replied, "not a combination I want to be sniffing around in."

oooOOooo

Black Swan stood at the staircase, overlooking what he considered a garish affair.

Having been bred from birth to be one of the finest mercenaries in the world, Black Swan enjoyed a long and storied career in his youth, but by the time the Fantastic Four had debuted, Black Swan was no longer a young man, and began to ease himself into retirement.

When he looked down on his 'peers', Black Swan was convinced that he made the right choice. Skill and precision had gone the way of the dodo, and gaudy costumes and overwhelming force were the new norm.

"Black Swan, your presence is requested by Colonel Condor."

"And if I said I decline the request?" Black Swan didn't bother to face the men.

"Then I'd say it wasn't a request," Bakuto flexed his fingers.

"And you, Mr. Stone? What would you say?"

Stone stood at attention like the soldier he was, "I would say that you are being rude, when you are a guest in someone else's home, sir."

Black Swan turned, and smiled at the man.

"Well said and well played," said Black Swan, "Bakuto, you may tell your master I'll be along shortly. Mr. Stone, would you join me for a moment?"

Bakuto seethed, but knew fighting would be an embarrassment, a sign of lack of control regardless of who won. So the leader of The Hand in all of South America just turned on his heels and left, as Stone remained where he stood.

"I applaud your caution, but you have my word as a gentleman I mean you no harm."

"Try to touch me, and I'll be forced to kill you," Stone stepped next to Black Swan, looking down on the large crowd, "may I ask what this is about?"

"Look down on the crowd, what do you see?"

"Enough muscle and firepower to level a city, sir," Stone observed.

"No no, not that," Black Swan shook his head, "as operators. Professionals, what do you see?"

Stone nodded, "I see mostly civilians then. Some exceptions like Shockwave and Klaw, but otherwise they're all people who came into their powers by luck or science."

"Agreed," Black Swan smiled, "I'm going to give you some advice, Stone, because I feel you're smart enough to accept it. Infamy, status, these are things we have no need of. They feed our ego, but endanger everything else."

"I couldn't agree more, sir."

"Good. I tell you this because I honestly want you to succeed in our profession," Black Swan explained, "a profession that has become bloated and saturated with idiots and glory hounds. Do not follow their path, Stone. Especially not with your abilities."

"I had no intention of doing so, but thank you for the advice," Stone replied, "are you ready to see the Colonel now, sir?"

"No," Black Swan sighed, "but I'll see him anyways. It would not do to be rude."

oooOOooo

Sister Golden had been at the bar, ordering a drink when it happened.

"Hey, hey hey there sexy!"

The long haired mercenary barely controlled her urge to kill when she felt the man pat her ass like it was thirty years ago. Her hair trembled and she grinded her teeth, but otherwise she gave no outward sign how she felt, for several reasons.

The first being that the man wore the exact same uniform as Stone, which meant, like any gang, they would respond to any attack on him like it was an attack on them.

The second one being that, in gatherings like this, using violence was, ironically, frowned upon and considered the tool of an amateur.

"You got enough weapons on you?" the man asked.

"Well, a girl can never be too careful," Sister Golden put on a fake smile that she'd perfected years ago, "especially when she doesn't have a big, strong male around to protect her. You got a name, handsome?"

"Name's Clint, part o' Blackguard and baby, there ain't no one stronger."

"Is that so?" Two thin strands of Sister Golden's mane crept up to the man's waist, and silently wrapped themselves around his belt.

By now, Sister Golden could feel a good part of the room's attention focused on her. Their little 'chat' was like the beginnings of a car crash, and whether she killed him, or played the part of Little Red Riding Hood to his Big Bad Wolf, the audience wanted to see what would happen next.

And far be it from Sister Golden to disappoint.

"Well, you are strong," Sister Golden's hair snapped to life, and yanked Clint's pants for all to see, while a third tress of hair wrapped around his feet, causing him to fall on his ass, lower half exposed, "but I've seen bigger in a maternity ward."

Sister Golden smirked as the room broke out into laughter.

"You little bitch," Clint pulled up his pants, and climbed to his feet, "you'll pay for that!"

"Is that so?" Sister Golden willed her hair to move, and measuring at six feet in length at its shortest, it was quite the sight. Two pony tails grabbed the side-arms resting on her hips, three grabbed short knives and another two grabbed brass knuckles, "you and what army?"

"I'm an army of one," Clint smiled, "also…"

-snikt!-

Sister Golden's eyes when wide, her heart began to pound and the laughter that had surrounded Clint fell deathly silent when they saw the energy claws protruding from his knuckles.

"Scared, girly?" Clint licked his lips, "don't bother to deny it. I can hear your heart racing, smell the fear in your sweat…and see your knives trembling. I'll cut you in half without even trying."

Sister Golden saw her weapons wobbling, and to her credit, was able to make them steady through sheer force of will. But she wasn't so certain that handling Clint would be as easy.

"Come on, knock-off," Sister Golden spat, though she knew she shouldn't. Even if this man was only a tenth as dangerous as the man his powers were based on, that still made him a hundred times more dangerous than anyone she had faced yet.

Clint was about to make good on his threat, when someone stepped in between him and his target.

"That's enough," Ana Kravinoff reached behind the bar, and liberated a bottle of vodka, "your employer is not paying your to harass the guests."

Sister Golden watched as Kravinoff removed the glass cork and took a deep swig of the bottle. And though she was relatively new to the whole 'hired killer' profession, even Sister Golden could see how doing so left Ana completely open to attack.

But Clint only clenched his fists, and walked away muttering.

"Wow," Sister Golden reholstered her many weapons, "thanks. Us sisters gotta stick to together, huh?"

"Not hardly," Ana put the bottle down, "I was looking for you, and require that you be in one piece. Now please follow me."

Sister Golden knew it wasn't a request.

oooOOooo

"Colonel Condor, the Black Swan."

Colonel Condor sat behind a magnificent oak desk that was hand-carved desk, organized with the focus and utility of a man who'd spent his entire life in the military. Not a single scrap of paper looked to be out of place and not a speck of dust was to be found.

"Welcome, Black Swan," As for the Colonel himself, he was easily into his eighties, but stood up with the strength of a much younger man, and offered his hand.

"You're sounding much better than when you called me earlier," Black Swan shook the man's hand, and took a seat in front of the desk. Black Swan observed as Stone stood off to the side.

"Just a sore throat," Colonel Condor replied.

"I see," Black Swan steepled his hands together, "how many years have we known one another?"

"Over two decades," Colonel Condor replied, and then paused, "though I wish we'd met in person more."

"And after such a long association, do you really think I wouldn't know an imposter when I saw one," Black Swan opened his sword cane just ever so slightly. He was still lounging in his chair, but in just revealing two inches of blade, everyone felt as if he were crouching, ready to lunge for their throats.

"I don't know what you mean…!"

"You shook with your left hand, but the letter opener is on the right," said Black Swan, "you shook my hand despite knowing my abilities, your body language is that of a man at least twenty years younger and the way you paused a moment ago, you were being informed of how many times we met and under what condition."

"That's absurd…!" Colonel Condor protested, "I assure you, I…"

"Enough," Stone said, "this man is a professional, and our time is limited. My apologies sir, you understand that we had to try."

"Of course, Stone," Black Swan stood up, "and in our profession, I understand the need for secrecy, but I've come too far to speak to an imposter. Either he can see me himself, or I can leave."

"One moment, please," Stone pressed his finger to his earbug.

"The Colonel will see you, sir."

oooOOooo

"Uhh, is this a good idea?" Sister Golden asked, as she followed Ana.

She and Ana were walking much, much deeper into the mansion than she was comfortable with. Sister Golden had grown up amongst criminals, and while on more than one occasion they had invited their peers into their homes, there were strict, unspoken limits to how far that hospitality extended. Abuse it, and you were on the quick road to a summary execution and shallow grave.

Which was exactly where Sister Golden was certain they were heading, when two Blackguard mercenaries stepped in front of them. They were dressed the same as Clint and Stone, and Sister Golden was certain they possessed the same abilities.

"You ladies shouldn't be here," said the first one.

Sister Golden glanced aside at Ana, hoping for any clue about how to play the situation. But the huntress was deathly silent, and not in a good way.

"Oh, it's quite alright, gentlemen, they're here to see Elias," said a new voice. Sister Golden looked past the guards, and saw a well dressed, elderly man standing there with a polite smile on his face. Sister Golden wasn't much surprised that butlers dressed the same in South America as they did in the United States and everywhere else in the world. Maybe it was some kind of rule?

"Mr. Caine, the guests are not supposed to be in this area of the mansion, sir."

"Well, your employer likes a bit of privacy when he deals with female company," Mr. Caine smiled.

"…very well," the two guards nodded to Sister Golden and Ana, and motioned for them to pass.

"Imply that I am a prostitute again and I will skin you alive," Ana said the moment the guards were out of earshot.

"Please forgive that distasteful ruse," Mr. Caine led them into a small study. Sister Golden was shocked to not only see Elias, but Katar Garrison, Hrist, Hurricane and Mr. Slick as well.

"Ladies, welcome!" Elias smiled, "thank you for joining us!"

"What's going on here?" Sister Golden glanced at the other mercenaries, and felt a sense of dread building in her stomach.

"I was just getting to that," Elias said, with a charming smile, "but, to help you fully understand, I need to give you a little history about this continent. Do any of you know what 'Operation Condor' was?"

Garrison Katar raised his hand like he was in middle school, "That was a Cold War operation against the commies, weren't it? Funded by the United States, a bunch o' less than democratic countries went about wipin' out groups that might be sympathetic to the Russies. About some sixty thousand people died in all, an' that's probably on the low side."

"Well now, the cowboy isn't as stupid as he looks," remarked Mr. Slick.

Katar just smiled, and tipped his hat at the man.

"That's essentially correct," Elias said, "and my father was a proud participant. He didn't care who he killed. Teachers, students, even a beloved children's author from a small, unimportant country. Can you imagine a German calling himself Captain Holocaust?"

"Your daddy sounds like a right sick fellow," said Mr. Slick.

Elias chuckled, despite himself.

_Several stories down in a fortified bunker_

Black Swan had seen and caused his fair share of death in his life. There were times when he killed for money, out of anger and once in a rare while, mercy.

It was that rare feeling that overtook him now when he saw Colonel Condor, laying in a hospital bed, clinging to life. The man looked like little more than a skeleton with flesh draped over him. His eyes were sunken in his sockets, his head was bald and covered in liver spots and he barely had any teeth in his mouth. An oxygen mask covered his face, but to Black Swan's surprise, Colonel Condor's eyes still held the look of the sharp and ruthless intellect.

"Sorry for the deception," Colonel Condor wheezed, "but I'm not in the best of health at the moment. Also, please watch your step."

Black Swan glanced down, and saw several intricate patterns drawn on the floor in what looked like fresh human blood, and smelled of magic.

"Runes," Colonel Condor explained, "to keep death from finding me, or so they say. But their power is limited, and my time is short."

"Then get to the point," suggested Black Swan.

"Very well. Three weeks ago, I was struck by an assassin's bullet. The makeup of the bullet was unique, hence my," Colonel Condor coughed for a few minutes, and blood splattered on his oxygen mask, "my present condition. I've consulted dozens of paranormal experts and doctors. They all agree there is only one way to survive this. And survive this I must, Swan, because I have too many enemies left alive…"

"What is it you require?"

"A sacrifice, a legacy torn asunder," Condor wheezed.

"Your son," Black Swan said.

oooOOooo

"Your own father?" Hurricane couldn't believe what Elias had just told him, "what kind of madman is he?"

Elias shrugged playfully, "We were never close. I consider Mr. Caine to be my real father, truthfully."

"You mortals can put the basest troll to shame," Hrist shook her head.

"I think I can see where this is heading," said Sister Golden, "you want us to get you out of here and to safety, right?"

"Correct."

"Let me clarify," Sister Golden said, "you want us to fight past the army of Wolverine knock-offs, Hand ninjas and assorted villains, piss off the South American Wilson Fisk, and after doing all that, stashing you someplace where three separate armies somehow can't get to you?"

Elias' smile was disturbingly casual, "Exactly."

"It does sound like a tall order," said Mr. Slick, arms crossed over his chest, "I'm with the young lady, what you are proposing…seems unwise.

"Sounds like fun to me," Katar gave his six shooters a whirl.

"Finally, a challenge," Hrist commented.

Hurricane and Ana said nothing.

"Okay, the wackjobs have spoken, but I'm out!" Sister Golden unsheathed three daggers, "and don't even think of stopping me!"

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," Elias said, "but it may not be that simple."

"And just how is that?" Mr. Slick asked.

"You see, of all of you, only Ana here was actually invited. The rest of you were, ah…added at my suggestion. And it won't take my father's men long to find that out. My father did not climb to the top without being paranoid, I feel I should warn you."

"You little bastard," Sister Golden growled, "you suckered us!"

"We either stand together or hang separately. What's your choice?"

Next Issue: Break out!


End file.
